Fine. Trigger Warning.

I was asked recently if I was interested in gun play. I firmly and adamantly said no, I was not. I further emphasized that I am terrified of guns. I have lost important people in my life to suicide, and I explained that thoughts of ending one's own life are quite common and often fleeting. However, if the fleeting urge happens to be very strong, then a gun at one's disposal only requires that split second thought to pull the trigger and end it all. Pulling the trigger can be very impulsive and sometimes the damage can never be undone. That terrifies me, and so do guns.

She is a firm believer in the right to bear arms, and we also lived together. I told her that I don't mind her keeping guns in the house, but I asked that she not really discuss it with me, at all. I also asked that she keep them under lock, separate from the ammunition, and to try to avoid even telling me where she had them stored. I knew she kept guns in the house, but we had never discussed it until this one night.

Fear and pain are highly arousing for us both, and I always advocate for pushing past my own limits and boundaries. After experimenting with knives and razors, I could understand her fixation with gun play given what I know about the kinky appeal. However, I was a bit shocked that she was bringing it up with me. She knew that I hated guns, and I didn't quite understand where this conversation was leading. I asked her to elaborate.

She told me that she had recently been fascinated with the adrenaline and fear that accompanies a life or death decision, especially ones that occur in a matter of seconds. I nodded along, listening intently. She told me that she often thought of death, but that it was tormenting because she did not actually want to die. She told me how much she loved me, but she also said that she fantasizes about killing me as much as she does herself. I half smiled and told her that I often have the same feelings towards her. When I said that, she pushed through that small opening and told me about her gun play idea.

She told me that she had been floating some very dark thoughts lately, and she was tired of being trapped in her head. She was thinking about dying, and she wanted to address this fantasy in a safe and controlled environment, with me. I kept listening, but she was honestly scaring me at this point. I was becoming really scared for both of our sake's, and I asked her how guns played into all of this morbidity for her. As soon as I asked the question, she pulled a revolver out of the back of her waistband. I winced at the sight of the gun, and she laughed and pointed the weapon right at me.

I hate guns, and I was already trembling at the sight of one in the hands of my volatile and apparently homicidal girlfriend. She kept her finger on the trigger as she lowered the gun, and she told me to calm down. She told me the gun wasn't even loaded, and there was no reason to be afraid. She liked the feel of the heavy metal in her hands, and it made her feel powerful. I was intrigued, and I asked if I could try holding it. She smiled wide and handed me the gun.

It was heavier than I expected. I was surprised by the immediate feel of power and control instilled by the cold metal in my small and untrained hands. She watched my curiosity and intensity grow, and in a vindictive moment of impulse, I pointed the gun at her. She did not flinch, but she pushed my hands down to lower the gun. She then informed me that it looked like I wasn’t so scared after all, and I was ready to play with guns. My heart was pounding because I never knew her next plan.

She told me she wanted to play a game of Russian roulette. She reassured me that it would just be playful fun for us to take turns squeezing the trigger, but there was nothing to worry about because the gun wasn't loaded. The longer I held the gun, the more attached I became to its weight, and as long as there was no real danger, I agreed to play her game. I thought it might be fun for both of us to imagine the other one dead, an endlessly joyful thought.

She told me to go first. My hands were shaking, but I held the point of the gun to my temple and squeezed the trigger. I winced and my shoulders shook, but all I heard was a click. I sighed deeply and passed the gun to her, She held it to her head and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger. We heard was another empty click, and she passed it back to me.

I was feeling more comfortable this time, and I acted a little faster. I held the gun to my head and, after a short pause, pulled the trigger again. I remember hearing a loud bang, and then nothing. I lost consciousness from the gunshot, and I don't know for how long I was out. I woke up on the floor with a pillow under my head and a ringing still in my ears. My girlfriend was softly stroking my hair and smiling at me, telling me how lucky I was that she decided to use blanks. She condescendingly reminded me that guns are not toys, but at least we can play with them. She also lamented that as fun as this was, it was still just a game. In those few moments when I lost consciousness, at least she could pretend that I was dead.

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I take it in my hand and run my tongue and lips over the head.
I let it slip into my mouth, pushing against one cheek, letting my head back with a popping sound.
Keeping my eyes closed, I brush my lips against your nipples, kissing up to just below your chin.
I taste myself on your dick as I slip it into my mouth once more.
I feel saliva dripping on my chest and I close my eyes as your dick pops out of my mouth.
I push my body to relax, all of my muscles and once I feel your dick swelling, I rub my tongue all over its underside, keeping everything of yourself deep inside my throat.

Lunchtime, I picked up his rather cryptic reply: "Yes. Looking forward to some CFNM, Tom xx." What the hell did that mean, I wondered?
In fact, what little I had gleaned about such encounters was that disdainfully ignoring features like a man's crown jewels, heightens the sense of humiliation felt by the NM.
I was still improvising like mad, and was going to feel pretty stupid if this game didn't come to anything, but with his head raised, it brought into my view his erect throbbing penis, the watery eye of which was looking straight up at me.
Like a drug-addict craving something stronger all the time, Tom often expressed his fancy to be paraded before a whole group of (clothed) women.

Tears spill from her eyes, as she begs to feel the kiss of the paddle, the sting of the whip...anything that will penetrate the clothing and fire her straining nerve endings.
He lets go of her head and pulls her to trembling legs, staring into her eyes..."Next time, mind how you dress...and remember the consequences."
His hand slipping easily into her sloppy cunt...he fucks her with his fist...hard and fast into another painful orgasm....pulls his fist out still clenched, and feeds her his fingers, pushing them deep into her mouth until she has licked the salty taste of piss and the sweet taste of girl cum from them...then leaves without another word.

I don't think Lars knew or even suspected that I liked her and I didn't really want him to know either.
Now I'm not talking about Marilyn Manson style or anything extreme like that but there isn't really any other easy way to describe her and she certainly wasn't emo or into wrist cutting as Lars had sarcastically said.
Lars tolerated her because he loved his mom and thought his stepdad was an all right guy but he had never grown close to her or tried to bond in any way.
The door swung open suddenly and Lars, red faced and breathing a little harder than usual, moved to let me in.